Mother's Daughter

By: Loraine Valladolid

I used to be proud of my body, not solely for its appearance, but because of the things it

can do. I regularly participated in public speaking competitions, where I garnered praise for my articulate speeches. My family took pride in me; I was their intelligent, accomplished daughter.

I used to sing songs about heartbreak, even though I was just a child, barely familiar with

real pain except what I saw in movies. Yet, my family praised me for the way I wove words

together. Unlike my mother, I was never gifted with a voice so angelic that it seemed to reach the heavens.

I used to look at the birds and admire their songs with the rustling of the leaves outside

their cages and the crunch of a leaf’s skeleton beneath my feet.

I used to brush my hair and stare at myself in the mirror, admiring my face. My mother

taught me to love myself. Because I am my mother’s daughter.

But now that she's not here, I don't know who I am anymore. I wish she were here to see

how she damaged me past repair. I wish she were here to see that, because of her love, her

absence was the harbinger of my ruin.

Now, I don't recognize the face staring back at me in the mirror. Everything has lost its

effervescent glimmer, replaced by something dull. I no longer sing my own songs of faux

heartbreak; instead, I weave words of false hope and listen to my father’s cries, their lament a haunting melody.

One time, I finally had the courage to look at her face again. I was numb to everything; I

didn't really care what would happen if I ever saw her caring eyes staring back at me. I knew I wouldn't cry, because I was done.

So, I looked at her picture next to the altar, but instead of her, I recognized my face again.

Instead of her face, it was my caring eyes staring back at me. I had changed, undoubtedly, but it was still me. The same child who used to sing, the same child who would smile and admire her beauty, the same child who was proud of herself. To be honest, I had quite forgotten about her, but I guess she remains within me, albeit hidden.

I didn't realize that I was shedding tears. Perhaps it was my childhood seeping out of

me—the time lost over chasing my mother's love.

I rushed to look at the mirror to see my face clearer. Although tears streamed down, a

smile adorned my lips. I was unrecognizable, feeling as if I were no longer my mother's

daughter. But, perhaps, finally, I am just me?

That though I was a child of love, the love was never truly mine. It was hers.

But right now, my smile, my tears, my voice, my songs—all are mine. No longer meant

to perform for an unreachable being who I know is dressing me up with clothes I actually hate and not letting me cut my hair because it was “too boyish”. Finally, I am myself, I am my own authority.

Mom, like the birds, I finally understand that time when they fled their cage, and I cried

out in agony. Mom, they weren't singing; they were crying over the loss of their freedom. Mom, like the bird, you were my cage, and in your absence, lay the harbinger of my identity. I am not my mother’s daughter.

I am me.